


Breaking In

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 22:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for tf-rare-pairing weekly request 'deadlock/turmoil make it hurt'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking In

“You can’t believe,” Turmoil’s voice indicated that, on the other hand, he couldn’t either, “that this report is even remotely adequate.”

“We won,” Deadlock stood on the other side of the slim swing-down console arm, head cocked, radiating insolence. He had no concept, Turmoil thought, of war. Combat, he knew, perhaps. He did not know war. He'd known Deadlock was trouble from the minute the mech had stalked off the transport shuttle, his red optics narrowed and predatory.

Like he owned the place. 

He didn't. Turmoil did. 

“Perhaps.”

“No ‘perhaps,’” Deadlock said. “We won. A rout.  Force ratio and kill numbers right there.” He jutted his white chin at the datareadout. 

“Ah. Yes.  The only numbers, in fact.”

“Only ones that count,” Deadlock countered, arms folding over the chassis. 

“It’s not your determination to make.” It was Turmoil’s—they both knew it. It felt like an added layer of defiance. 

“Right.” A negligent shrug, feigning apology. “Not much of a bolt-counter.”

“Those bolts,” Turmoil said, “Are what keep the machinery of your combat together.”

A roll of the lowlight-orange optics. 

“Really, Deadlock.  Your combat statistics may have blinded your previous commanders to your insubordination, but it’s not something that will be tolerated here.”  His former commanders had been slack, Turmoil thought, letting Deadlock run roughshod over their commands.  Clearly, why Megatron had assigned the wayward little renegade to him. 

“Insubordination,” Deadlock cocked an supraorbital ridge. “Sounds like envy.”

That. Was too far.  That step too far Turmoil realized he’d been expecting, almost anticipating, all along. His larger hand clamped over the smaller wrist, jerking Deadlock forward over the narrow arm of the data console.  Deadlock tried to resist, but even his defiance couldn’t overcome mass and inertia, stumbling forward. 

“Envy,” Turmoil said, flatly, his visor glaring in challenge. 

A hot lick against his EM field. “Seems like it.”  There was an edge to the insolence now.

“Ah.” A snort of his own. “I’ll have to see if I can shift your perception.” He tugged the trapped hand, letting the data console’s arm strike against the smaller mech’s thighs, Deadlock bent awkwardly forward. 

Deadlock tried to jerk his wrist free—Turmoil followed the motion, swinging his arm in an outward arc, twisting the trapped arm around and behind Deadlock, rising smoothly to his feet. Oh, Turmoil was a large mech, indeed, but despite the bulk, and despite the command chair, he could move, fast and agile. Which Deadlock had discounted, apparently, until he found his face jammed against the wall, his arm pinned up high behind his back. “What, precisely, should I envy about you, Deadlock?” His voice was sultry, purring in the smaller mech’s audial. 

He pressed closer, pinning Deadlock’s shoulders to the wall with his chassis, his free hand sliding down the other’s aft, thick fingers scraping over the interface hatch. Just as a hint, a goad, a sign of mastery—that he could do this, and there was not a damn thing Deadlock could do to stop him.

Deadlock hissed, but the metal under Turmoil’s hand tingled with desire.  Oh, how very, very interesting. A piece of the puzzle snapped into place. And a key. 

He reached forward, one knee wedging Deadlock’s thighs apart, hand slipping to the catch, jerking the hatch open.  Deadlock growled, but his hips pushed back into Turmoil’s hand, his palms flat on the wall, trying to push off it.

Turmoil didn’t even try to hide the chuckle, two blunt fingers circling the valve cover. “This?” he goaded. “Should I envy this, Deadlock?  Or does this envy me?”  The valve cover clicked aside, the soft sound poorly covered by Deadlock’s snarl, trying to jerk his pelvic span out of Turmoil’s reach. All it did, of course, was give his fingers clearer access to the exposed valve, to the damp heat of lubricant seeping down its mesh.

He could feel his own spike pressurize, rising to attention, a hunter scenting prey.

“Probably the only way you get any,” Deadlock snarled into the wall.

“It’s the way I prefer it,” Turmoil said evenly, batting aside any sense of insult, rocking close, releasing his spike, pushing the head of it just against the rim of Deadlock’s valve, feeling the slippery wet of Deadlock’s lubricant in a hot ring around the head.  He felt Deadlock stiffen, his valve twitching at the contact.  “And let’s admit something, Deadlock,” he said, wrapping one hand around Deadlock’s waist, pulling him backward, pulling the valve, tight and straining, onto his spike. Deadlock writhed, but Turmoil, more than twice his size, had force and mass on his side.  “You want it, too.”

And his spike, which pushed in, like a slow intrusion, into the narrow warmth of Deadlock’s valve. He could feel the mesh stretching, calipers flaring to accommodate his girth. He preferred this, too, the smaller mech, the valve pushed to the point of pain, and yet washing with fluid. “Tell me something, Deadlock.”

“Get slagged,” Deadlock said, trying to twist around, free hand swinging wildly for his face. It thudded, harmless, on Turmoil’s collar armor, impotent. 

Turmoil chuckled, jerking his hips forward, driving his spike hard into the valve, until it jolted against Deadlock’s ceiling node.  He was really going to have to teach Deadlock some manners. And he was anticipating that he’d enjoy the experience. Very much.  “My question,” he said. “Is this.” He released the wrist at last, wrapping that hand around Deadlock’s throat, pulling the smaller mech’s back hard against his blocky chassis.  “do you realize how obvious you are?”

A growl, vibrating from the throat beneath his fingers.   Turmoil ducked his head in lower, nuzzling his mask against Deadlock’s cheek. “It hurts so much, doesn’t it,” he said his voice dripping with sussurus sympathy, antifreeze-sweet. “Knowing that Megatron’s just discarded you, thrown you off.  I guess he must have tired of you.” He rocked his hips, his spike stretching and sliding in the smaller mech’s valve.  “Tired of this.”

He could feel the struggle against him, the way the valve clutched at his spike, and the sudden well of sound in the other mech’s throat had the sudden force of a sob. 

Oh, Deadlock would be so very interesting to break.


End file.
